Disciplined by the Duke Page 18

  She sniffed. “Sounds tiresome. Your future duchess, whoever she may be, will not be nearly as amusing as I.”

  His lips quirked. That would all depend. If he could find a society woman like Liz he would never tire of peeling away her layers. He glanced down at the bobbing feather. He could never love a woman like Arabelle, but for the first time since his brother’s death her insouciance didn’t irritate him. Perhaps there was hope in finding a proper match with a woman of the ton.

  As long as he didn’t cross paths with his curious little bird. One glimpse of her and thoughts of any other woman fled from his mind.

  So that settled it. He would avoid his maid, which shouldn’t be difficult. He rarely saw most of his servants. They were so competent at their duties that his estate seemed to be run by unseen fairie folk.

  He would overlook her, keep her in the background. Unease coiled in his gut as he and Arabelle approached the stone walls of the east wing, and his steps slowed. Somewhere behind those walls Liz worked. Slept. Smiled.

  He was mad if he thought he could ignore her.

  * * *

  Liz spun around at the sound behind her, but it was only Molly, lugging in a painting that had been reframed to place along the hallway’s wall. Hurrying to help, Liz grabbed one end of the frame, and they positioned the landscape until it hung evenly.

  “Cor, what is with you today?” her chamber-mate asked. “You’ve been as nervous as an old maid in a roomful of sailors.”

  Liz brushed her rag over the wood frame. “As colorful as that may be, I don’t know what you mean. I am quite content.”

  The other maid snorted. “If you say so.” Molly studied her, and Liz squirmed under the scrutiny. “Are you still feeling ill? Are you sure you don’t have a problem?” She made a rounding motion with her hands over her stomach.

  “No! I have no problems.” She bustled to a maple console table and began plucking dying buds from the huge bouquet sitting upon it. No problems except a sister in prison, a letter to find, and a duke she couldn’t get out of her thoughts.

  She sighed. Yesterday had been incredible. Thrilling. Satisfying. Dangerous.

  Stupid.

  She had let herself fall under Montague’s spell. She had forgotten her purpose, and that was a problem. She needed to refocus on her mission and find that letter, if it existed. From the tone of Westmore’s last note to her, it sounded as though he was beginning to doubt the letter was in Hartsworth, as well. Liz figured he would give her a week more, maybe two, before calling her back to London. Assigning her a new task that would eat at her conscience. Leaving Amanda in limbo for several more weeks.

  Closing her hand around a rosebud, she crushed the soft pink petals. For a couple minutes she had escaped her problems.

  But that was yesterday.

  She brushed the destroyed flower into her apron, holding up the hem to cradle the fragments. “We’re done in the hall. I’m going to move to the breakfast salon.” Molly nodded in agreement, her eyes lingering on Liz’s midsection.

  Throwing back her shoulders, Liz stalked down the hall. There was no way to combat the rumors that swirled around Hartsworth. She could only ignore them. The worst of it was she wouldn’t be here in a couple months’ time to show everyone she wasn’t with child. No, her new friends would continue with their happy lives at Montague’s estate, never knowing the truth, while she wasn’t allowed that luxury.

  Her steps stuttered. She could not want to remain here, a servant to Montague. Under his command. Surrounded by his demanding presence. His protection.

  His rough fingers and soft lips.

  Something tugged deep inside of her center.

  She stared at the flowers in her apron. She had to admit she had become accustomed to her time here. Even though she was but a servant, she’d felt safer at Hartsworth than she had anywhere else in the past year. Safer, happier, more content.

  While her sister remained in prison.

  She started forward again, and found a container in which to dispose the flowers. She had searched Montague’s study, his private rooms, and the study of Mr. Todd. Multiple times. The letter was not in any of them. Either there was no letter, or the duke kept it on his person.

  A tentacle of an idea began to coil in her mind. It was rash. Did she dare? Chewing her bottom lip, she considered the idea from all angles. It was the only way she could think to discover the missive. Just because she might enjoy it didn’t make it any less necessary.

  Taking a deep breath, she made for the hidden servants’ passages.

  There was only one way to get close enough to Montague to discover the letter if it was on his person. The pleasures of the previous couple days didn’t have to be relegated to mere memory. She could relive them, and feel no guilt. It would all be in service to her sister.

  A shiver swept down her spine. It did no harm, she told herself firmly, that she would immensely enjoy her spy work this time.

  She felt along the cold passageway, the rough stone rasping against her fingers. The duke’s hands were calloused, his touch rough, as well. Anticipation quickened her step. Wanton or not, she wanted his fingers on her skin once more.

  She passed door upon door, peeking in the occasional spy hole, but found her quarry where she expected, in his study. She peered at him a moment from behind the door she had cracked open. He sat behind his desk, his back to the brilliant view of the front drive in the sunny afternoon. With brisk efficiency, he cut open an envelope with a dagger-shaped letter opener and spun the tool idly in his hand as he read.

  One of his eyebrows quirked up, and he tapped the blade against his lips. Liz sucked in a quick breath. She had never thought to ascribe the term “beautiful” to a man, but beauty sat before her. The navy blue coat he wore emphasized the strength in his shoulders, the power of his chest. His full lips, so stern when in the presence of others, pursed softly as he contemplated his correspondence.

  She brushed her fingers against her own lips, remembering the press of his mouth. She wanted that feeling again. But how should she handle this? Brazenly walk in and drape herself across his lap? No, he wouldn’t respond well to such recklessness. Break another of his possessions? She shifted on her feet. She didn’t think he would want her to play games.

  A gust of breath huffed out of her lips. Perhaps she should merely tell him what she was feeling, what she desired. It had worked yesterday. Sometimes honesty was the best policy.

  Her gaze dropped to his broad chest, as she knew his coat held interior pockets. Well, not complete honesty.

  Running her hands over her hair, she took a deep breath. She needed to pull this off. If he carried that letter she needed to distract him sufficiently to lift it without his notice. Her stomach lurched as she pushed open the bookcase door more fully. It made only the barest whisper of sound as it brushed against the carpet, but the duke’s eyes snapped up and immediately focused on her.

  His jaw clenched.

  Liz’s step stuttered. She forced herself to press on. “Your Grace,” she murmured. She dropped the smallest of curtsies, not wanting to present herself as a servant to him, but knowing she shouldn’t presume familiarity. Hoping to glean a cue from his body language or expression on how she should act, she waited, but his face was unreadable. Tucking her palm within the folds of her skirts, she clenched her fist, keeping the emotion off of her face, as well.

  “Yes, what it is?” His voice, while not outright cold, held none of the warmth she’d grown used to. If yesterday he had brought a fire to her core today he chilled her into ice.

  “I, uh . . .”—her mind spun—“was hoping to speak to you about your tenants and the villagers.”

  One elegant eyebrow rose. “What about my tenants?”

  Yes, what about his tenants? She couldn’t believe she had caved so completely from her purpose, but any thoughts of seduction fled her mind at his cold expression.

  She took a deep breath. “I don’t know if you’re aware of a custom your m
other started and that was continued by your last housekeeper. They brought much-needed food and supplies to those who required it. Since your housekeeper’s passing, no one has thought to continue that aid.”

  Liz had never prided herself on being particularly quick of mind, but that bit of misdirection brought her an acute sense of satisfaction. She didn’t know whether he regretted the day before or was merely uninterested in her now that he’d taken his pleasure, but she would be damned if he discovered that their interlude meant more to her than to him.

  He uncoiled behind the desk and rose to his full height. “You came to me, through the old servants’ passages no less, to discuss food baskets to the poor?”

  When he put it like that, her actions did seem far-fetched. But he didn’t need to make her sound ridiculous. She raised her chin. “Yes, I did. I thought it best to bring this to your attention with no one around to witness it. I did not want to be responsible for pointing out your lack of charity to others.”

  His eyes narrowed to granite slits. “I see.” Circling around the mahogany desk, he stalked towards her, eyes unblinking. She willed her feet to remain planted to the floor. He stopped mere inches from her. Crossing his arms over his chest, he brushed his sleeve across the tips of her breasts, the light scrape of the wool sending a delicious chill arcing through her body.

  He lowered his face towards hers, his breath caressing her lips. “You, my chambermaid, believe me to be an inattentive landlord? You think I am deficient in my duties as duke and steward of this land?”

  His nostrils flared, and Liz took a hasty step back. He followed. Her heart leaped to her throat, but she forced herself to stop her retreat and stand her ground. The past year had taught her the perils of showing fear.

  She’d also learned that once she started a bluff it was best to continue. “I didn’t say ‘deficient,’ Your Grace, but it is without question that many of your tenants relied on that charity and face difficult times now in its absence.”

  “A fortnight of service here and you have become an authority on the needs of my tenants?” His voice might have been ice, but the heat in his eyes scorched her. “How fortuitous for me. For the price of one chambermaid, I can now rid myself of my steward and use you for both positions.”

  Her back pressed against the door. She hadn’t realized she’d continued to stumble backwards. She lifted her chin. “Obviously the position of steward is not sufficient. Mr. Todd has not addressed the situation, is probably not even aware of it. By not replacing the housekeeper, you may have overloaded the poor man with his duties and made it impossible for him to take care of everything that needs seeing to.”

  Both of his broad hands landed flat against the wall, bracketing her head. “And now you presume to tell me that my managerial skills are lacking. This is a position that I have been trained for since birth.”

  Liz sucked in a deep breath, the duke so close his scent of bay rum enveloped her, the need it created making her dizzy. The duke. The eighth Duke of Montague and Marquis of Harrington, Earl of Berring, and Baron Hawkridge of Stoven. Thirteenth in line to the crown. Whom she was berating like a schoolchild. Her knees sagged, and he caught her shoulders, pressing her back against the wood.

  “I presume nothing, Your Grace. I am merely telling you what I know from personal knowledge. People could use your help.”

  He moved in closer, his face inches from her own. “What personal knowledge?” When she hesitated, he said, “Answer me,” the command clear in his voice.

  “When I visited Mr. and Mrs. Blackmun in the village, I learned of their troubles. Their nephew, Bob, used to bring them some food.”

  His brow furrowed. “Bob? Bob Blackmun, my footman?”

  She nodded, the door behind her pulling at the hairs in her chignon as it scraped up and down the wood. “Yes, I wanted to learn if they’ve heard from him since he left your service.”

  “Why?” His fingers tightened around her shoulders. “What does Bob Blackmun mean to you?”

  “Mean to me?” How could she explain why his disappearance concerned her? She licked her lips. Her mind raced among possible explanations. Montague’s flinty gaze drilled into her, the lie she had prepared evaporating. It was like he could see into her mind. He broke past all her barriers.

  He pressed his body against hers, each hard muscle fitting against her softness from chest to thigh. “Was he a beau?” he asked, voice as rough as crushed gravel.

  She shook her head, tried to fill her lungs. If he hadn’t been holding her up she would have slipped to the ground, boneless. Wrapping her fingers in the lapels of his coat, she held on tight.

  “No?” He lowered his head, brushing her smooth cheek with the slight bristle of his. The low rumble of his voice sent a shiver arcing from her eardrum to her lower abdomen. “Young Bob never put his hands on you?” He swept his own down from her shoulders to her hips, yanked her flush to his body. He settled more fully against her, a distinct hardness pushing into the cradle of her thighs. “Never made you tremble under his touch?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “No?” Rubbing his nose along hers, he rocked his hips into her center.

  She gasped, wanting him to do that again. She dug her fingers under his coat, loving the feel of his corded chest as she searched for more purchase. Her right hand brushed against parchment, and she stilled.

  Marcus circled his hands around to her bottom, pulling the material of her skirts tight against her hips.

  Amanda. Her eyes fluttered shut and images of Newgate Prison skated across the inside of her lids. Her body cooled with the knowledge of what she must do. She couldn’t afford to be mindless, no matter how much his touch whispered to her to let go. She threaded her left hand into his silky hair while wrapping one leg around his, opening her center to him. The next time he thrust his cock against her, she met him head-on, using her new position to rub herself wantonly against him.

  They groaned together.

  Forcing her right hand to move, she brushed lightly over his shirt until her fingers found the edge of a letter. The letter, she hoped. She tried to ignore the fire that he so easily reignited. It was her turn to seduce. She wouldn’t let her body betray her mission.

  She gently kissed the corner of his lips, amazed that she could be so bold. She wanted to taste him, let him taste her. She inched out the parchment, waiting to see if he heard a rustle of paper, not able to hear anything herself over the pounding of blood through her veins. She pulled again, a sliver more of the letter exposed to her grasp.

  Montague cursed, and she froze. But instead of grabbing her wrist, calling her out for her deception, he turned his face towards hers and took her mouth like a man starved for contact. His lips pressed against hers so hard it almost hurt. When his tongue pressed between the seams, she suckled at it, loving the sound of his groan, knowing he enjoyed her touch as much as she did his. She clenched her fingers, and the edge of paper against her fingertips revived her senses.

  She rocked her hips into his and tugged at the letter. Rock and tug. Those were the only two things in the universe she could focus on. She gave up trying to match his kiss. She let him control it, let him plunder her mouth. All she could do was savor it. He pressed harder into her, pinning her in place. Her hip movements became jerky, frantic, as her body searched for its own release, leaving her mind behind. Her leg tightened around his, her entire body feeling as though a giant fist squeezed it tight.

  The letter was halfway out.

  She was so close. So close to obtaining her sister’s freedom. So close to collapsing in that dizzying spiral Montague had introduced her to. The need for both those things consumed her. She dragged her mouth from his, light-headed from lack of air and gasping for breath.

  Please, Montague, don’t stop. I need you so badly. Did she think those words or say them out loud? She didn’t know, no longer cared.

  But she must have uttered them for the duke to hear. Because he did the unforgiveable. He sto
pped. Pulled away. The only contact remaining was his hands on her hips; then those, too, slowly, slipped away.

  She locked her knees to remain upright. “What . . . ?” She examined him, trying to find a clue as to why he’d stopped. Aside from a decided tousle to his hair and a slight heave to his chest, he appeared unmoved. If a corner of white paper didn’t peek out from behind his lapel she would have believed the interlude to be a fantasy, a figment of her imagination.

  “What’s wrong?” she whispered.

  “Nothing.” His voice sounded as impersonal as if he had directed her to clean the floors. “I need to return to my work. Your concerns over my tenants will be duly noted.” Turning, he strode back to his desk. Liz glimpsed the brief outline of the bulge behind his trousers that had brought her mounting pleasure. Her cheeks heated. From embarrassment, anger, and unsatisfied desire.

  Anger won out.

  “Do that, Your Grace,” she spat out. “If you have any further questions about your previous charity direct them to Mrs. Johnson. I will no longer be available to meet any of your needs.” She swung open the door and hurried out. Her hands longed to slam it shut, but her job was already in a tenuous position. She settled for closing it firmly and smacking her palm against the wall when she saw no one was around.

  She stalked down the corridor, her body thrumming with tension. Brushing tears from her cheek, she hurried to her room. She could handle this no more. No more anticipating glimpses of Montague. No more tiptoeing through her searches. No more being close to something she could never have. No more.

  She would tear the estate apart if that’s what it took to retrieve that letter. Then she would be done, gone from here. Gone from this constant longing that permeated her body at his presence.

  The servants’ quarters were empty at this time of day, and Liz was grateful no one was around to see her unravel. She closed herself in her room, threw herself on the narrow bed. She clutched the coverlet and tried to even out her breathing, stop her tears.